Canon
by skrybble
Summary: A small, bitter part of her can't help but notice there are more medals than there are people to receive them." There's what's meant to be, but it's never entirely the same as what happens. KotOR; oneshot.


**I don't even know where this came from. I think all my oneshots are morbid. You have been warned...**

**Disclaimer (man, I'm awful with these...): I don't own anything but my plot twists.  
**

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Sunlight throws rays of gold off the glittering sea, and tangles in the sparse tropical leaves, pooling in patches across the ground. The beach's white sand is positively aglow, and it is much the same effect as snow had under sunlight. Her amber eyes are squinted against the glare, but she stands tall, trying to project confidence. She is all too aware of the red lights blinking on the many cameras. All of them are on, and most of them are trained on her face.

She doesn't want the attention, any of it. She doesn't want to listen to the exuberant buzz of conversation, as the same words echo over and over. "_They did it… she did it…"_

Their joy, their _obliviousness_, infuriates her. Where were they, during the battle that they are all buzzing about?

A hush falls over the watchers, though, the voices fading from a torrent to a low hum. She realizes someone in a military uniform—albeit one he bulges out of—is approaching them, medals glimmering from a box in his hands. A small part of her, a cruel, bitter part, can't help but notice there are more medals than there are people to receive them. The man situates himself in between all of them, before turning to face the cameras with a politician's smile.

She lets her eyes dart along the line. No one else looks happy either. She is unsurprised. The battle at the Star Forge has all but torn them apart. Missing from the line are two Jedi and HK-47, not to mention the Wookiee who should have been Kashyyyk's future chieftain. The empty spaces they leave feel even bigger than the assembled crowd.

As she thinks of Zaalbar, her gaze drifts helplessly to his best friend. Mission hadn't been allowed to join them in the fight, and she doubts that the girl will ever forgive or forget. Her young, wide eyes, empty of innocence, are red-rimmed and bloodshot. One hand rests on T3's head, more for support than anything else.

Nearby stands Canderous, inevitably drawing her gaze. She half-expects him to start shooting everyone in a moment, just for something to do. He looks bored to death, just like he has for the last few weeks. Ever since their fifth Star Map—and what happened afterwards—he has lost the only person on the crew he ever had any respect for.

The man has stopped speaking. Numbly, she registers applause. For them? Maybe. She despises them for it. Hatred is an emotion unsuited to Jedi, but this is hardly hatred. She is disgusted.

The man with the medals turns to Carth, obviously the most familiar. The soldier stands tall and stiff as the man pins a medal to his chest, but his face is worn and cold, and his eyes empty. She knows their thoughts are one and the same in this moment.

Satisfied the cameras are gone from her face, she closes her eyes. Images are all too eager, however, to flood her vision, rising to the surface of her mind like corpses to the surface of water. Again she sees Bastila's face: cold, gray; a trickle of blood trickling from her parted lips. They had left her sprawled on the floor, her blank gold eyes still gazing upwards as if searching for something in the ceiling above her.

She knows that it had been wrong to kill Bastila. She also knows that she was the wrong one to have fought that battle in the first place. There should have been another person in her place, one who had a way with words, and the ability to save the ex-Jedi rather than condemn her.

But that person is gone.

A voice murmurs her name, and her eyes snap open. It is Jolee, next to her, and she spares him a nod of thanks. The old man's eyes are the same as Carth's, sad and angry and deep with guilt. Both of them still blame themselves for what had happened before, only a day after they finally learned where the Star Forge was.

And now the images come again, unbidden and despite her eyes being wide open. No one, neither the cameras nor the crowd, see her teeth grit, or her knuckles whiten as her fists clench. The pictures running through her mind will haunt her nightmares for years to come.

_It was evening when they found her in the cargo hold—it had been Zaalbar who saw her first, but the whole crew had come soon enough. Her limp fingers were wrapped around a blaster, and a dark hole, perfectly circular, was tattooed on her temple. Blood ran down her face, dripping off her chin and onto her Jedi robes. Worst of all, however, were her open eyes. They shone in her cold face like glass: empty and haunting. A faint, ghostly smile was still curving her lips, as if she could see something ahead of her that none of them could.  
_

Jolee blames himself for the guidance he hadn't given, and Carth blames himself for what he hadn't said, but they are all guilty. It doesn't matter that, in the goodbye note, she had begged forgiveness, not just for her but for themselves. She wanted them to know that it was her choice, but they all know it was a choice that, like it or not, they'd led her to.

The uniformed man steps forward, the pin glimmering in his pudgy hand. How does a piece of hammered metal possibly represent so much—according to him, the gratitude of the galaxy—and simultaneously fill her with such anger? She shouldn't be the one getting this medal. She has never been the one destined for it. All she is is a Padawan who was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

But the man is fastening the medal to her chest, and so she smiles. There is nothing real behind it, no joy in her eyes. It doesn't matter. This is all fake, anyway, a sham. Rather than the Republic's old hero, it is a ragtag group of hopefuls who took on Malak, and they have hardly survived.

And how could they expect any more, she wonders? They are only human. This should have been Revan's job.

Except Revan is dead by choice, by a blaster left clenched in her own desperate hands. And the crew of the Ebon Hawk—what is left of it, anyway—will never forgive her, no matter what, for leaving them with _her_ fate to carry out.

The Jedi bows her head against the sun—how dare it shine so cheerfully? She wishes it would thunder, and rain would pour down like tears from the clouds—and ignores the man as he says loudly, "Congratulations, Juhani."

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**Haha--bet you didn't see that coming. I don't know _what _this is supposed to be... I was wondering what would happen if Revan actually did commit suicide (who would take on Malak?!) and came up with it. Reviews appreciated, since for all I know this made no sense to anyone else :P  
**


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